


Reunion

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, I'd like to think this is a pretty low angst fic, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Trans Malcolm Bright, Trans Male Character, but not as much as the summary might imply, like there's some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Malcolm Bright hasn't seen his father since before he started transitioning.___________________________________Pilot rewrite with FTM Malcolm
Comments: 49
Kudos: 242





	1. Three Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I wanted to preface this by saying that I am genderqueer, not trans. I did do some research on writing trans characters, but since I don't have personal experience, I might make mistakes. Please let me know!

## Present

The first and foremost feeling Malcolm felt at the moment was undeniably anger, and close behind was frustration. He had been seconds away from wrapping up the case neatly with next to no complications when that _idiot_ barged in. Sure, he’d almost been killed — _long_ before any “backup” showed up. If only the cops had just listened to him and let the killer surrender…

He ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to calm down. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, inside he knew he was also feeling fear. Not from nearly dying, no, he’d been reasonably sure he was in control before the killer was shot. No, he was still reeling from being dismissed. It wasn’t terribly surprising that they were uncomfortable working with the son of the very kind of person they arrested, but he had made it work there. He had kept a professional relationship with all of the other agents. He knew the kind of people they were, knew that he was relatively safe with them. 

Losing his job meant that he would have to start all over again. He would have to get used to watching and waiting and testing before he could be himself comfortably. Of course, he had plenty of money and therefore didn’t need to work, but Malcolm knew without a doubt that he would go insane if he adopted the kind of lifestyle his mother had. He _needed_ his job.

For the first time in a long time, he desperately wanted to go home.

Malcolm was aware, in a lot of ways, that he led a privileged life. 

He didn’t have to worry about finding a place to live. His mother was his new landlord, and she would never kick him out. She also knew him well enough to make sure he didn’t have neighbors. No one would be around to be put off by his quirks. There was space for his weapon collection. Sunshine was more than welcome in the building, too. His bed was even equipped with restraints before he moved in. 

The money he had access to also ensured Malcolm had a wardrobe full of tailored suits and similarly expensive casual clothes. He always felt he was every inch of Malcolm Bright, FBI profiler, when he was dressed in his finest. They weren’t just armor. They were facets of himself.

He knew that he _himself_ was also the product of his wealth, in a way. He’d done his research. While his family had no problem paying for his transition out of pocket, he was aware that plenty of people would balk at the money they had no hesitations putting down.

But his mother was all too happy to be able to do something for him, especially after he’d decided, on his own, to stop visiting his father.

## Past

No one wanted him visiting Martin. His mother was against it, of course, and it wasn’t surprising that Gil and Jackie were uncomfortable with it as well. Not even his therapist wanted to subject a young child to their serial killer father, but in the end they had let him go once. Just _once_ , as a trial. It was a last ditch effort to get him to talk again.

It worked. Jessica dressed him up in his finest casual dress, stockings, and mary janes — an outfit formulated to show that they were doing _absolutely_ fine without Martin. She brushed Malcolm’s hair back and secured it into a braided bun. They both knew she would rather have let it loose to push the resemblance between mother and child, but Malcolm hated having his hair down, and this visit was, at its core, about Malcolm and Malcolm only. 

He was the best dressed person in the entire building.

Martin lit up when he saw him.

Malcolm blinked, taking in the bright orange jumpsuit and the thick bars that separated them.

“I didn’t think your mother would let you visit,” his father said as he shuffled closer. 

He didn’t respond. The guard offered him a chair and he sat down, carefully adjusting his dress so that he could sit on the skirt of it comfortably. 

“How’s your sister?” Martin tried.

“ _Dad_.” He slipped his hands under his thighs to keep them from shaking.

His father’s eyes flickered down with the movement before swinging back up, his grin faltering ever so slightly before growing again at the address. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Why did you do it?”

He walked down the hallway back to the waiting room, clothes still impeccable.

Gil looked up when he heard footsteps. “You ready to go, kiddo?”

Malcolm nodded. 

He helped him into his coat, and they made their way out to his car.

“Gil, I can come back, can’t I?” 

The older man stilled. 

“I miss him,” Malcolm continued hesitantly. “Is that ok?”

“Yeah,” Gil said finally. “And I’ll see what I can do.” He patted Malcolm’s shoulder before starting the car.

The visits continued for a few years — despite everyone’s pleas for him to stop going. When they did end, it was on Malcolm’s terms. He missed his father dearly, but in the end it came down to one thing.

Fear. 

He was afraid, not of the Surgeon, but of Martin Whitly. His father. 

Deep down, Malcolm knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it if his father rejected him.

## Present

When it came to figuring out who to tell about being back in town, there was no contest. He contacted Ainsley as he hung up his suits. 

“Malcolm!”

He smiled. “Hey Ains.”

“I thought you were on a case?”

“Well… about that. It’s a long story. Are you free for coffee?”

“You came home?!” 

“If you’re not free now —”

“I’ll make time,” she said firmly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?”

“I assure you, you’re the first to know.”

“ _Malcolm!_ ” 

He could practically hear her roll her eyes.

“Ok, I’m taking my lunch now. Meet me soon?”

“Sure, Ains.”

If there was one thing he regretted about joining the FBI, it was how far it took him from his sister. They had bonded close in the aftermath of their father’s arrest, and on more than one occasion, he’d distracted her while their mother had a mini breakdown from the stress. He taught her how to braid (even using his own hair for practice before he cut it off) and sneak snacks from the kitchen. He even let her have first pick of all of his things after he finally came out to their mother.

She was instrumental in getting Jessica to understand that he wasn’t crying out for attention, but acceptance. 

And then he left her behind when went to college, when he joined the FBI and ran around the country catching killers.

Pictures and phone calls didn’t do justice to how much she’d grown up while he was gone. Ainsley was much more her own person now. He had to smile. 

Seeing Gil for the first time in years brought up much of the same feelings. He knew they had drifted some when Jackie died, both caught up in their grief, and going into the bureau was easier than confronting that grief. 

He could tell now that Gil didn’t blame him at all, and he made a note to apologize anyway. Jackie had been an anchor for both of them. She was like Malcolm’s second mother, the only adult who was removed enough from his father to see him for him all the time. The first person he confided in all those years ago. The first person who accepted him.

He gets into the passenger seat, feeling just as much like Gil’s son as he had joining him on stakeouts as a teen.

## Past

Sometimes his mother’s social events were too much for him. He couldn’t bring himself to put on the dress or the makeup or god forbid, the _heels_ , and smile and pretend they were a normal happy family. Jessica could, having grown up in society, and Ainsley loved the glamour of it. Thankfully, he was allowed to beg out on occasion. 

More often than not, he ended up at the Arroyo house on those days. Gil was already on a shift that night, and Malcolm was too tired and still too young to stay up with him, so he ended up helping Jackie in the kitchen instead. 

(She was still healthy then.)

She took one look at his hands that night and set him to pulling out ingredients while she did all of the chopping.

“I won’t push you to talk, but if you’d like to, you know I’m always here.”

He nodded gratefully.

She cooked in silence, only sitting in front of him once dinner was simmering to a finish on the stove behind her. They talked about his homework then, not a word about his shaking hands, and Malcolm knew that he was making the right decision.

“Jackie?” he said as she set two bowls down at the table. Gil wouldn’t be back until late. They’d bring him dinner in an hour or so.

She smiled softly at him. “What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

He picked up his spoon but didn’t take a bite. “Would you —” He put the spoon back as his hands started to shake again. “Would you — hypothetically — if you and Gil had a kid —”

Reaching across the table, Jackie put a hand on his. “Take your time.”

He took a deep breath. “If your daughter came to you and told you she was really your son, would you… be understanding?”

She squeezed his hand. “Could you look me in the eyes for a moment?”

He did.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “He would still be my son.”

Jackie held him as he cried in her arms, their dinner cooling on the table.

“Let’s get you out of that skirt,” she whispered some time after his tears finally ran out. “I think we have some of Gil’s old sweats in the closet.”

They swamped him at only thirteen, but he felt better than he had in ages.

He owed a lot to Jackie.

## Present

Part of him wished he had listened to Gil and joined the NYPD instead of the FBI, but he knew he would have gone stir crazy had he not gotten a chance to distant himself from this city. It gave him time to pull himself together and grow. It let him become his own man rather than relying on Gil. 

Still, he knew that Gil would do his best to make Malcolm feel welcome now, just as he would have ten years back. 

He knew it to be true even as the implications of the crime scene set in. This killer was copying his father, and Malcolm, for all that he hadn’t seen his father since he was fourteen, was familiar with the Surgeon. He poured over his case files in undergrad over and over again and even had a copy in his loft. Not to mention that he spent countless visits with the man himself.

Gil knew it, too. He was all too aware that Malcolm would have a good chance of solving this. 

“I can’t go back to him,” he said. “I’m not even sure if he would help after finding out that I’m… me.”

“I don’t want you to see him,” Gil admitted. 

But he _did_ want Malcolm’s help. They had a chance to save the last victim of this quartet, and when it came down to it, neither of them could turn down the opportunity.

“I’ll get started on a profile.”

His mother was in his loft. She scolded him lightly for not telling her he was moving back and teased him for his chosen surname, but he could tell she was just worried.

After all, if Malcolm was doing anything for the family reputation, he was trying his best to boost hers. He wasn’t a Whitly. There never was (legally, at least) a Whitly son in his generation, and although he hadn’t taken her maiden name for his own for fear that it would be too easy to connect the dots, he hadn’t discarded it completely either. No, her maiden name became his middle name, and his first name was her father’s. The grandfather he’d never met but heard many things about.

His mother had genuinely teared up when he asked if he could be a Malcolm, and that had been enough to soften her towards Bright. Then it was just a matter of money, influence, and eventually he was under a sort of witness protection. No one would be able to connect Malcolm Bright with Martin Whitly without some digging.

So Malcolm, self-named after his grandfather, worked to put away people like his father and fix the reputation the man ruined. In a way.

She smiled at him and he smiled back.

The tea was spilled down the sink.


	2. Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has a choice to make: does he face his fear, or leave an innocent woman to die?
> 
> It's not a hard decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep this short -- I can't even explain how grateful I am for the warm reception to chapter 1!! I wasn't sure about my writing in that part, but I got so many wonderful comments <3 
> 
> I hope you all like this part too!

## Past

When Malcolm woke up that morning, he stayed in bed. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he stuck by his decision in the hopes that if he stayed there long enough, his mother might be out shopping by the time he wandered downstairs. He had told her the night before. Emboldened by Jackie’s easy acceptance, he’d started the conversation during dinner. Ainsley hadn’t been too fazed. She was observant in the way young kids often were, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch for her to think of him as her brother. 

He still felt warm thinking about it.

Their mother, on the other hand, had been confused. She’d gotten that look on her face, that look that said that she was considering calling his psychiatrist, that she was worried about him. So he’d tried to explain. He’d told her how he felt, how _anxious_ his body made him, especially as he got older, and how he’d privately thought of himself as a boy for a while.

Ainsley cut her off before she could start. “Mom, he’s a boy. It’s not that hard.”

Jessica gave her a look, but Ainsley was stubborn when she knew she was right.

“He's a boy! Jenny from school is a tomboy. My brother is a _boy_ boy.”

Dinner was mostly silent afterwards, though to his temporary relief, their mother mostly looked thoughtful.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. Now, he was worrying. What if she thought it over and came to the conclusion that he was just crying out for attention? That he was just messed up? He curled up under his blanket.

There was a knock at the door.

“I’m coming in.” His mother.

He could feel her sit on the edge of his bed.

“Sweetheart?” She paused, hesitant. “Are you comfortable with me calling you that?”

He swallowed. “It’s better than my name.”

She gently pulled the blanket down until his head was visible, his long braid wildly messy from a night of tossing and turning. “I have something for you.”

Turning to look, he saw it was a flat gift box. “What is it?”

“You have to open it,” she said quietly as she brushed a loose hair from his face.

He did and froze. “Is this a _binder?_ ” He knew what they were, what they looked like, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to buy one without her knowing. He certainly hadn’t wanted to ask Jackie to pay for one for him.

“I pulled some strings. Be careful with it.”

She looked perfectly styled as always, but it was then that he noticed a slightly heavier amount of makeup around her eyes and suddenly he _knew_. She’d been up all night trying to understand, to learn. 

Malcolm hugged her like he hadn’t in years.

## Present

When Malcolm woke up the next morning, he spat out his mouth guard, freed his arms from his restraints, and stuck himself with his T injection. He was well aware that he wasn’t great at taking care of himself, but his injections were the one thing he was consistent with, to his mother's dismay. Food and sleep, she argued, should be just as important.

He mentally went over his profile as he dressed. Going over all of his files on the Surgeon was unfortunately necessary for the case. Whoever their killer was, he was a fan. A fan with skills, too, since he’d managed to kill three of his planned four without getting caught. Gil wouldn’t be happy about it, but Malcolm doubted he could give them much to go on unless the autopsies yielded any other hints.

He fed Sunshine on his way out.

Even as they were rushing out of the building, his profile was shifting. Their killer had some form of body dysmorphia. The thought made his stomach turn, but he knew it was true, although it wasn’t _strictly_ the kind of dysmorphia he was familiar with. Still, this case was hitting closer and closer to home as it went on. 

His own dysmorphia, thankfully not too bad as it used to be, was lurking in the back of his mind. He’d felt _fine_ that morning. In the aftermath of the explosion, however, he was too dazed to keep his distance, and Dani got to close, nearly touching his chest several times when she tried to ground him. 

He knew she wouldn’t feel anything. There wasn’t anything to feel but some faded scars that were lost in the layers he wore. It still threw him. He did _not_ like strangers getting into his personal space.

He washed his hands at the precinct, wetting a scratchy paper towel and blotting his brow, too. 

He was fine.

He wasn’t fine. 

He resisted the urge to kick at Ainsley under the table. Neither of them were particularly good at lying to their mother, but, to his eternal annoyance, Ainsley was nearly always the first to break. She, as the youngest child, got the brunt of Jessica’s maternal instincts. They had had two parents to share the load for a good chunk of Malcolm’s childhood, and even after their father went to jail, she was hesitant to press him too hard for fear that he would shatter. Ainsley, on the other hand, barely remembered their father. It was habit for her to break after a little while under Jessica’s disappointed face. 

Malcolm clenched his fists and released them. It was hard enough being back in his childhood home with all of the memories his case was forcing to resurface. He was reminded of Martin everywhere he looked. He had no idea how his mother dealt with it. Nearly every room held a memory of the man, and every single memory he had of him was tainted now.

“Do not go to him.”

“ _I won’t_ ,” Malcolm protested. “You know I won’t. I’m the one who chose to stop seeing him, remember?”

“If you go to see him even once, you won’t have a reason to stay away,” Jessica warned. It wasn’t something they ever explicitly talked about, but they all knew exactly why Malcolm stopped visiting when he had. “And then, he will _ruin_ you.”

He clasped his hands tightly. He knew she was right. If he was being honest with himself, even those handful of years he had been visiting his father might have ruined him already.

Ainsley apologized quietly, and he shook his head.

“She would have found out eventually, Ains, don’t worry about it.”

## Past

Malcolm always brought his homework with him when he visited his father. It might sound rude to anyone who didn’t know them, but it was, in fact, Martin’s suggestion. He was thrilled at the prospect of helping his eldest child with homework. He couldn’t go to recitals or parent-teacher meetings, but he could still satisfy his parental feelings this way. Malcolm didn’t mind, either. He missed sitting with his father in his study, learning about whatever Martin wanted to teach him at the time.

That day, however, he didn’t want to do homework. It was his last visit. His mother promised him they would cut his hair soon, and even now Malcolm was uncomfortable without a binder. Not to mention in a skirt. He himself had insisted that he look just as he always did during his visits, because he knew that any difference would be noted by his father. Still, he didn’t want to just stop his visits. He wanted one more chance to say goodbye, even if his father wasn’t aware that it was a goodbye. Even if Martin wasn’t aware that he had a son newly named Malcolm, if only among family for now. 

Martin grinned. “So what are we working on today? History? Math? Or _oh_ , Biology?”

Malcolm shook his head and showed his empty hands. “I finished it already.” He looked nervously at the guard. “Can I—”

His mother and Gil had already talked with the guard about this visit. Martin hadn’t shown any inclination towards hurting his child during any of the visits prior, and although they hated the idea, Malcolm had been quite insistent. He wanted to be in the cell for his goodbye. His father was already chained and cuffed, and the guard would stay for the visit to be safe.

The guard nodded and unlocked the cell door.

This time, Martin’s grin was terribly unsettling. “Oh! This is a _treat_.”

Malcolm slipped into the cell and hugged him without a word, unknowingly softening that horrible grin. He clung to his father for some time. They hadn’t been allowed to get within a few feet of each other since the arrest, and if it was the last hug he’d get from him, he would make the most of it.

“Is everything alright,” Martin asked softly.

His son flushed and pulled away. “Sorry.”

“No, no worries. Here,” he said, sitting on the bed, “sit next to dear old dad before David changes his mind!”

They just talked for the rest of the visit. His father told him about the other inmates, and Malcolm assured him the kids at school weren’t bullying him (they were ignoring him altogether, but Martin didn’t need to know that). 

At the end of the visit, Malcolm hugged him again and walked out with the intention of never coming back.

## Present

He walked down the hall slowly, putting off his arrival as long as he reasonably could. He _had_ to do this. He didn’t want to, his hands were already shaking, and Gil certainly tried to stop him, but there was a life on the line. He didn’t even want to think about what his mother would say. Clenching his hands, he opened the door.

Malcolm’s first thought was that this cell was much nicer than the one he remembered from his childhood. There was a desk, bookcases full of books and journals, and even a carpet. His second thought was that his father was doing better than he anticipated. It looked like he was doing well for himself.

Martin stared at him blankly for a long moment, taking in his face.

Malcolm let him. Transitioning hadn’t taken away the family resemblance at all. If anything, it heightened them in some ways. Some of the soft features that he had gotten from his mother had sharpened into ones more akin to his namesake, and those of his father’s were more familiar in a masculine face. He had done his best to prevent his father from finding out what he looked like now, but nothing short of extensive plastic surgery could hide who he was if you knew what you were looking for.

Martin smiled slowly. “I had an inkling during those last few visits. Tell me, what do you go by now?”

His blunt nails dug into his palm. “You can call me Agent Bright, Dr. Whitly.”

“Oh come now, let’s not pretend I can’t recognize my own child when I see them.” He pouted. “What happened to the sweet child who hugged me so tightly?”

“He grew up.” He stood his ground as his father walked closer, having faith in the tether to keep the man back. It wasn’t an easy feat, but with every attempt Martin made to pull him in, he stuck by his goals. “You have a copycat.”

“Please,” Martin said, watching him look through his journal. “All I want is a name.”

“Keep wanting.” He found where the pages should be and kept pressing. “What about your patients?”

And then there were two. Two files, but not enough time or manpower to track down both in time. The only person who could tell him which one to take was in front of him. Malcolm watched him.

“You’re going to tell me,” he said, realizing that he had the power here. “You’re afraid I’m going to leave again. How long did it take for you to realize I wasn't coming back?”

Martin didn’t bother to answer.

“Ok, I’ll give you this — help me, and I’ll come back.” He paused and considered. He'd already given out his last name and old title. It wouldn't be terribly difficult for someone with his father's connections to find out his first, but Martin hadn't held back in asking. His father wanted to hear it from him. He took a deep breath. “Give _me_ a name, and I’ll give _you_ one.”

“Carter Burkhead.”

Nodding, Malcolm pivoted and rushed towards the door. “Thank you, Dr. Whitly. I promise I’ll be back with that name.”

The rest of the case should have been easy. They had a name, and thanks to Nico, they had a likely victim as well. They _should_ have been able to wrap it up in no time. 

“My real last name,” Malcolm forced out, refusing to deadname himself even as he revealed his family name, “is Whitly. I’m the Surgeon’s son.” 

He could feel Dani’s eyes on him, and he hoped that she wasn’t aware that the Surgeon had had two daughters and no sons. Their family had been in the society pages plenty of times prior to his father’s arrest. Of course, he was sure Burkhead would know if she didn’t, but he was banking on the man being distracted by a new potential victim to realize.

It worked, somehow, and then Gil was there, and he and Dani were safe.

Though Malcolm certainly didn’t feel safe the next morning, when he went back to visit his father. He knew it was stupid. He knew he was falling right into the trap his mother had warned him about. He knew that it shouldn’t matter that Martin never used his deadname or the wrong pronouns during his last visit, or, as Malcolm had slowly realized the night before, during many of his later visits years back. He must not have been lying about having a suspicion that Malcolm was his son. _None_ of that should make any difference. Martin Whitly was a master of manipulation, and Malcolm would be better off without him.

But he couldn’t bring himself to go back on his deal.

He settled into the guest chair this time, which obviously pleased his father.

“I saw the news this morning,” Martin said idly. “I came through on my end of the bargain.”

“And now it’s time for me to come through on mine. My name is Malcolm Bright. Legally.” 

His father hummed. “After my father-in-law, no doubt. Did you know Jessica wanted to name you that? If you were born male, of course.”

“It was a happy coincidence.” It really was, and not a day went by that he regretted it. “Now, Dr. Whitly, it’s been pleasant, but I really must be on my way.”

And he left, knowing deep in his heart that he would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! I don't see myself adding to this unless any interesting situations come up in future episodes that inspire me, but if I do, I'll likely add it as a series or something.
> 
> I'm not sure what everyone was hoping for in regards to Martin's reaction, but I really do think he wouldn't want to push Malcolm away when he could manipulate him instead, ya know? Plus it probably thrills him that he could pass his murder skills down not only to a kid of his but his son.
> 
> Also, fun fact: since Malcolm stopped visiting long before he went to college, Martin didn't know he was a FBI agent when he let Burkhead have his papers. But he did know about Ainsley being a reporter and figured it would eventually get back to Malcolm in some way or another. It's not as solid a plan as it was in canon, but to be fair, he had a lot more years with no contact lol

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if anyone is waiting for the next chapter of my other Prodigal Son fic, I'm hoping to have it up before Monday's episode!


End file.
